In the 1990s, Sri Lanka suffered significant escalations in its civil war. One term that was used to refer to this period, kalabala, loosely translates to “troubles”, a local colleague says.
That particular term in the Sinhala language is used predominantly by one side in the conflict. Others refer to the Eelam War, unafraid as they are to label violence accurately. Sounds a bit like our Good Friday Agreement versus Belfast Agreement. Common ground between two countries who don’t come across each other all too often in the sports pages.
This lesson in Sri Lankan history came from a patient local colleague over a drink at the P Saravanamuttu Oval in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital. Ireland find themselves in South Asia for the T20 World Cup, drawn in the same group as co-hosts Sri Lanka. Our watering hole is the bar at one of three Test match grounds in the country’s biggest city, only it is not in use for the ongoing competition. Good news for the members.
It is a picturesque venue. A large photo of the great Australian batter Don Bradman adorns the wall from when he graced the oval back in 1948. It’s the type of place where you feel historical relevance as soon as you walk in the door. That and the mosquitoes.
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A few too many arracks (a spirit made from coconut flowers) ensure the passing of time eludes notice. Before long, we’re the only ones left. The bar staff awkwardly lurk, too polite to hand over the bill. Apparently, one of the journalists in our company is too big a figure in Sri Lankan cricket to be turfed out at closing time. He decides when the bar shuts.
A cultural difference. None of the rugby press pack has enough clout to keep the bar at Lansdowne open after hours. Come on lads, these poor sods have homes to go to.
In many ways, Colombo lives up to South Asian expectations. If hailing a tuk-tuk off the street, the tourist price is 1,000 rupees (€2.70). If the Uber app comes out instead, the same driver accepts the job for 300 (80 cent). You quickly learn how to play the game.
The need to be on your toes extends to foreign journalists trying to access the matches. Landing on the day of Ireland’s first game, it took some serious international diplomacy to convince the media manager to bring my press pass to the game, as opposed to leaving it at an office elsewhere.
Eventually, I’m told the pass will be left for me at the main gate of the R Premadasa Stadium. Wonderful. Only the perfectly nice policemen at gate one haven’t a Scooby Doo what I’m on about. Out comes a picture of the document. “In you go, so.”
“No, I still need the physical pass to get into the press box.”
“But we don’t have it.”
I text the venue’s media manager. “Do you have my press pass upstairs in the ground or is it at the gate?”
“Yes.”
Then a message in Sinhala. I’m sure this will one day be funny.
Supposedly, someone will come down to fetch the hapless Irish journalist. Five minutes go by ... 10 ... 15. The police become distracted by other matters. Feck this, I’ll blag it from here. No one chases your fleeing correspondent – either through forgetfulness or ambivalence. Maybe both.
Sans press pass, confidence ensures passage through those guarding the press facilities. That and, in all likelihood, a heavy dose of white privilege. “Welcome to Colombo,” a Sri Lankan colleague chortles upon hearing this tale of admin woe.
For all the chaos, Colombo does have more of a relaxed feel than other cities in the region. Sunsets and beaches are only 30 minutes away. The nightlife is excellent. As geopolitical tensions rage across Asia’s cricket-playing nations, Sri Lanka is a bastion of calm.
Said tensions, though, risk spiralling the city’s controlled chaos into something altogether more sinister. India and Pakistan square off in Colombo – neutral soil – on Sunday. The game is supposed to be in India (they are co-hosts along with Sri Lanka), but recent military clashes leave both countries refusing to travel to the other.
The game was, as of 72 hours ago, not going ahead. Pakistan decided to boycott in support of Bangladesh, another predominantly Muslim country, when they pulled out of the tournament in response to escalating tension of their own with the Indian state led by Hindu nationalists.
The boycott is off and, truth be told, local journalists are dreading Sunday night. Writing about these two countries is fraught with danger. Every sentence is a minefield. Annoy either fan base and you will receive death threats. It’s a grim example of sport being used as a geopolitical pawn. Yet you can’t help but watch come Sunday.
Not that our political divisions failed to earn subtle mention. During a stint on Test Match Special radio commentary, the host asked me why Ireland don’t play in orange to avoid kit clashes with other green-clad nations. “That would be an ecumenical matter” is the response that should have come forth...
Ireland, for their part, will soon be forgotten in this tournament. Two defeats to open their campaign leaves them all but out already. Victories over Oman and Zimbabwe in their final games would warm a few spirits back home, but such opposition lack the cut-through that would have come from Ireland holding on to their catches against Sri Lanka.
Two defeats have cost them $60,000 (€51,000) in win bonuses. Had they beaten the hosts and found a way to progress to the next round, an extra $270,000 in prize money would have come Ireland’s way. For a board still waiting to piece together the financial puzzle that will pay for this summer’s home fixtures, that’s a lot of dosh.
By contrast, if Pakistan had not stood down from their boycott, an estimated $10 million in advertising revenue would have been lost from their India game alone. Let alone countless millions of future television rights value.
Witnessing Ireland trying to compete in a region where cricket is an economic superpower, as opposed to a fledgling sport, was a grim reminder of our place in the world.
Still, it is a pleasure to spend time somewhere where cricket is a dominant cultural phenomenon. God knows we won’t see that at home any time soon. Nor my press pass.
